they haven’t earned. But whore, if you like. The trick is to be a clever whore”— le truc est d’etre une putain rusée . Pierre-Georges laughed his barking, unfunny laugh. “It would be agreeable to own a house in Greenwich Village, n’est-ce pas , and to be a rentier, especially in a profession like yours with such a short shelf life, no?”
Guy reasoned with himself that night as he tossed and turned in bed, surely there was something pure about him; he’d never slept with someone as a brutal transaction. Then he turned the emerald ring around in the dark. He laughed at himself. It was true he hadn’t directly negotiated for the jewel, but after he’d received the petit cadeau (“little gift,” to use a whore’s euphemism), he’d thrust himself through the glory hole for the first time. Why did he dream of more and more wealth? He had plenty, didn’t he, which Pierre-Georges had invested for him? Maybe because he’d grown up poor, just spaghetti sometimes three nights in a row, never a franc to buy candy, always hand-me-down clothes, never enough to buy schoolbooks—that had seemed like reality to him. And now that someone wanted to take care of him, he was … grateful? Was that the word?
He switched on the light and picked up a copy of a novel by Alphonse Daudet that Pierre-Georges had given him, a book he couldn’t get into, for some reason. It was old, he thought accusingly. From some other century. He didn’t like old things. He closed the book.
All right, so he’d already acquiesced to the baron for one big gift—why not a bigger one?
He phoned Pierre-Georges and said, “I can’t sleep. Would he buy me the building outright?” He looked at himself in the large wall mirror over the bed, one he’d positioned there to reflect his “pigginesses” ( cochonneries ). Of course, his hair was a mess, but he thought he looked pretty good, though his neck, still firm, was threatening to give way, like a dam after ten days of rain. Nothing visible yet, but he could just tell that that would be the first area of devastation. And his elbows were getting leathery.
He turned his head from left to right. Would he give that guy in the mirror a building?
He wasn’t his own type.
“Yes,” Pierre-Georges said, “I’m certain he’d let you sign the deed. It would all be done through lawyers so you wouldn’t have any embarrassment.”
“What would I wear?” Guy blurted.
“At the lawyers’? Your dark blue suit, the Armani.”
“No, I mean, at the orgy.”
“We could go to a shop on Christopher Street, where they’d fit you for black leather shorts—”
“ Berk! ”
“And a harness.”
“I’m not a horse. And I thought I would be the master.”
“That’s what the master wears.”
“Why?”
“That’s like asking why English words are spelled the way they are. Because. Just because.”
The line was silent with just Guy’s audible breathing. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No,” Pierre-Georges said. “I was watching an old movie on television.”
“Oh? Which one?” Guy and Pierre-Georges often watched movies at the same time, each one at home before his own television. Sometimes thirty minutes would go by without either of them saying anything beyond, “Isn’t that weird? Is that a shovel he has in his hand? What is she doing? Is that a pancake?” Guy’s English was better and he often filled Pierre-Georges in on the plot.
“Well,” Guy said, “I’ve been thinking about my future. I’m thirty-two. Time I had some steady income.”
“You have your Paris apartment rented out.”
“For a pittance. No, tell the baron it’s a yes.”
“He wouldn’t want it to sound like a transaction. He helps his protégé out, and then one night, spontaneously, the protégé explores his dark side in Édouard’s dungeon, just because he wants to.”
“Dungeon?”
“He has a dungeon on West Twenty-sixth Street, two rooms, quite spacious, really, with a Saint
Guy reasoned with himself that night as he tossed and turned in bed, surely there was something pure about him; he’d never slept with someone as a brutal transaction. Then he turned the emerald ring around in the dark. He laughed at himself. It was true he hadn’t directly negotiated for the jewel, but after he’d received the petit cadeau (“little gift,” to use a whore’s euphemism), he’d thrust himself through the glory hole for the first time. Why did he dream of more and more wealth? He had plenty, didn’t he, which Pierre-Georges had invested for him? Maybe because he’d grown up poor, just spaghetti sometimes three nights in a row, never a franc to buy candy, always hand-me-down clothes, never enough to buy schoolbooks—that had seemed like reality to him. And now that someone wanted to take care of him, he was … grateful? Was that the word?
He switched on the light and picked up a copy of a novel by Alphonse Daudet that Pierre-Georges had given him, a book he couldn’t get into, for some reason. It was old, he thought accusingly. From some other century. He didn’t like old things. He closed the book.
All right, so he’d already acquiesced to the baron for one big gift—why not a bigger one?
He phoned Pierre-Georges and said, “I can’t sleep. Would he buy me the building outright?” He looked at himself in the large wall mirror over the bed, one he’d positioned there to reflect his “pigginesses” ( cochonneries ). Of course, his hair was a mess, but he thought he looked pretty good, though his neck, still firm, was threatening to give way, like a dam after ten days of rain. Nothing visible yet, but he could just tell that that would be the first area of devastation. And his elbows were getting leathery.
He turned his head from left to right. Would he give that guy in the mirror a building?
He wasn’t his own type.
“Yes,” Pierre-Georges said, “I’m certain he’d let you sign the deed. It would all be done through lawyers so you wouldn’t have any embarrassment.”
“What would I wear?” Guy blurted.
“At the lawyers’? Your dark blue suit, the Armani.”
“No, I mean, at the orgy.”
“We could go to a shop on Christopher Street, where they’d fit you for black leather shorts—”
“ Berk! ”
“And a harness.”
“I’m not a horse. And I thought I would be the master.”
“That’s what the master wears.”
“Why?”
“That’s like asking why English words are spelled the way they are. Because. Just because.”
The line was silent with just Guy’s audible breathing. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No,” Pierre-Georges said. “I was watching an old movie on television.”
“Oh? Which one?” Guy and Pierre-Georges often watched movies at the same time, each one at home before his own television. Sometimes thirty minutes would go by without either of them saying anything beyond, “Isn’t that weird? Is that a shovel he has in his hand? What is she doing? Is that a pancake?” Guy’s English was better and he often filled Pierre-Georges in on the plot.
“Well,” Guy said, “I’ve been thinking about my future. I’m thirty-two. Time I had some steady income.”
“You have your Paris apartment rented out.”
“For a pittance. No, tell the baron it’s a yes.”
“He wouldn’t want it to sound like a transaction. He helps his protégé out, and then one night, spontaneously, the protégé explores his dark side in Édouard’s dungeon, just because he wants to.”
“Dungeon?”
“He has a dungeon on West Twenty-sixth Street, two rooms, quite spacious, really, with a Saint
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